


Soufflé Furlough (SGA/Traders xo) no 4/10

by Sealie



Series: sga/traders [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-11
Updated: 2006-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover no' 4 [voyage par mer segment]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soufflé Furlough (SGA/Traders xo) no 4/10

**Author's Note:**

> _  
> **Soufflé Furlough (SGA/Traders xo) no 4/10**  
> _  
>  **Grant is conspicuous by his absence…** Rating: PG  
> Spoilers: none  
> Betas: the incomparable LKY and Klostes – without whom this would have significantly less semicolons and Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard would say things like _pussy_.

**Soufflé Furlough (an interlude)**  
by Sealie

“Mmmm, food.” McKay spun on his heel and walked backwards along the pavement. He spread his arms wide and inhaled the dry, warm air of a Colorado evening.

“Christ, McKay, you sound like Homer Simpson.” Sheppard rolled his eyes.

“Come on, I was locked up in the SGC Infirmary with carbon monoxide poisoning, I need red meat.”

“I’m not sure one necessarily leads to the other,” Carson said easily, as he walked alongside a newly minted Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard.

“It’s called convalescence, Carson. Steaks cooked to perfection.” McKay smacked his lips. “They know their steaks. Not a very good wine list, but they know how to char a hunk of meat.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go that French restaurant that Elizabeth recommended?” Carson asked Sheppard out of the side of his mouth. “I mean it is your celebration.”

Sheppard shrugged easily. “Rodney says that this place is the best steak house in Colorado Springs. That – what did they call it? – Le Petit Bistro sounded a bit pretentious. Any rate the other newly promoted guys in the SGC had booked tables weeks ago.”

Sheppard’s unspoken ‘It’s not where you go, it’s who you’re with’ hung on the air.

“You won’t regret this. Trust me. The steaks. The steaks.” Rodney raised his hands in supplication. “Cooked to perfection, the barest hint of pink, a slither of Stilton…”

“Really?” Carson checked.

“Well, some kind of blue cheese,” Rodney said.

“What kind of chips do they have?” Carson asked feeling a little better about giving in to Rodney.

“With steaks?” Sheppard asked, his eyebrow lifted curiously.

“Our esteemed Scottish colleague means fries.” Rodney dropped back to walk at Carson’s side. “They provide fries that are so chunky and golden crisp that you’d think that your mother cooked them.”

Carson managed not to sigh; he had had a nice visit with his mum, and she was hale and healthy. He could be honest with himself; he was not needed at home.

They came to a halt at a pelican crossing on a cross roads and Rodney paused a moment, fingers moving to his mouth as he contemplated directions.

“Yeah, straight ahead.”

It was late and there was little traffic so -- rather than hitting the big silver pedestrian walk button and waiting for permission -- Carson strode across.

“If there was a cop around he’d yell at you for jaywalking,” Sheppard noted, but he darted across the road after a giant SUV passed.

“Pardon?” Carson asked.

“You’re not supposed to run across intersections like that. If you’d got hit by that SUV your insurance probably wouldn’t pay out. And, technically, you could get pegged for jaywalking if a cop was trying to fill their ticket quota.”

The lights changed and McKay ambled over to them. “Nah, he’s just fire that Scottish accent at them or bat those blue eyes and he’s be let off, Scot-free.”

“Where is this restaurant?” Carson asked, derailing any British-Canadian-American arguments before they could get started.

“Just ahead on the left.”

Sheppard planted his hands deep in his pockets and matched McKay’s ambling pace. Carson gently shifted his backpack on his shoulder.

“Did I tell you about Landry? The man’s offered Grant… Oh, hang on.” McKay looked down the back alley. “Yes, this is it.”

They turned down the side road and nestled beside a bicycle shop (which grabbed Sheppard attention until Rodney physically dragged him away) was a small ‘mom and pop’ establishment.

“Have you been here before?” Sheppard asked Carson as they followed McKay into the dark environs.

Carson blinked, once, twice, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light within. “No, I never spent much time at all in Cheyenne Mountain. I was based at Antarctica and I spent time at the The Directorate for Development Plans Area in Nevada.”

The restaurant was small, only six tables in the immediate area. Two were already occupied with couples deep in conversation, heads close as they conversed. Warm and heady scents hung, welcomingly, on the air.

“Professor McKay, long time no see.” A chunky woman, setting a table for six by the window, straightened.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I brought… friends.” Rodney waved at Carson and Sheppard.

She folded her arms over her ample chest. “Hmmm, you’ve lost weight, Professor.”

“Ha, well, the stories that I could tell you. But can’t.” Rodney tapped the side of his nose. “Classified.”

“So table for three?”

“In the back, so we can talk if we want.”

“It’s going to be a boring meal if you’re not going to talk,” Mrs. Reynolds observed. “Take the one at the back on the right. I’ll be up in a moment with the new menu.”

Rodney smiled, actually smiled widely, and then bounded ahead and up a short flight of stairs to the next tier with a, “Come on.”

Sheppard moved after him, leaving Carson with Mrs. Reynolds.

She regarded him, rolled her head back so she could scrutinise him through her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Can I help you?”

“Our friend, John, got a promotion.”

“That’s nice.”

Carson thought that the steaks better be good, because this lady was a lot like hard work.

“Rodney, Dr. McKay, mentioned that you normally just serve beers and you’ve only got a limited selection of wines. I don’t know how it works,” he continued rapidly, “and I don’t want to get you in trouble with the authorities. But because it’s a celebration and we’re shipping out in a couple of days, I took a chance and I brought a bottle of champagne with me and a bottle of red wine. I was hoping we’d be able to celebrate our John’s ...uhm… Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard’s promotion.”

“That’s a nice accent you’ve got there.” She held out her hand. “I’ll put the champagne on ice while your steaks are being prepared. I’ll come up with a corkscrew to your table.”

“Thank you,” Carson said simply as he slipped his haversack off his shoulder and pulled out the bottle.

“Off you go. You better order appetizers and dessert and big steaks.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure that Rodney orders double.”

“Like that wasn’t going to happen.”

Carson smiled. Mrs Reynolds glanced at the wine label, shrugged. “Go get yourself seated.”

Carson obeyed; this woman was someone’s mother.

Sheppard was already settled at the table, lounging like he belonged, by the time Carson joined them.

“Pity that Grant didn’t want to come,” Sheppard said.

Rodney shrugged. “Grant’s not that fond of restaurants and it’s past his bedtime.”

“You’re kidding,” Sheppard blurted.

“Early to bed. Early to rise.” Rodney leaned back in his rickety chair and looked at the ceiling. “I can’t believe that Landry offered him a job.”

“He didn’t take it, though?” John checked.

“No, Grant’s more sensible than that,” Rodney muttered.

Carson sat himself down and simultaneously pulled out the bottle of wine from his bag.

“Ooooh.” Rodney’s chair legs smacked to the floor as he leaned forward to grab the bottle. Turning it in his large hands, he whipped off the protective netting. “Amarone Della Valpolicella Classico 2000. Is it any good?”

“I like it.” Carson took it back and set it on the table. “I don’t think turning around and about will do it any good.”

“Are you allowed to bring your own booze to a restaurant?” John asked.

“No idea, but I checked with Mrs. Reynolds and she said that it was all right.”

Sheppard shrugged and pulled out his Swiss Army knife and extracted the corkscrew. Rodney waiting in grinning anticipation as Sheppard cracked the seal and drew out the cork.

Mrs. Reynolds clomped over with three plastic covered menus. “Here you go, dears. I recommend the tender fillet steaks grilled and wrapped in bacon, Madeira sauce, with fried potatoes.”

Sheppard’s eyes bugged.

Carson ran his finger down the list of dishes. “Ha, blue cheese. Can I have blue cheese, please?”

“I’m hungry,” Sheppard announced suddenly.

Eyes turned to the Lieutenant Colonel.

“I think that is the first time I’ve heard you say that,” Rodney said slowly.

“He needs feeding up,” Mrs. Reynolds observed; the glint in her eye spoke of ‘cheek tweaking’.

John shuffled down in his seat a fraction chancing a smile. “I think I’ll have what Carson wants.”

“Fillet steaks, bacon, Madeira sauce and fried potatoes– well done,” Rodney said without looking at the menu.

“Appetizers?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, looking directly at Carson.

“Oh, my yes.” He looked to the menu, trying to find the most expensive item. “I tell you what. How’s about a selection?” He looked at his companions, checking their opinion, both shrugged.

“Sounds good,” John said.

“We can nibble as we drink our first bottle of wine. While the red is breathing. I see --” Carson scanned the wine list. Rodney was half right; the selection was limited but it wasn’t bad, “-- we can have the Sauvignon Blanc.”

“Can we get a bottle of sparkling mineral water, please?” John asked.

Mrs. Reynolds smiled. “Of course you can, dear.”

“And once again the female sex falls before his dubious wiles.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Rodney,” Carson chastised.

Rodney shrugged unrepentantly.

Mrs. Reynolds gathered up the menus. “Rodney, I’ll get started on your double chocolate Cadbury’s soufflé?”

Rodney flashed a wide, toothy grin at the woman.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Rodney.” She hummed under her breath.

John raised a finger. “Make that two, please.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at Carson expectantly. “I don’t suppose you’ve got cheese board and biscuits? Hmmm, chocolate soufflé, please.”

Smiling, Mrs Reynolds tootled off.

“Curious sort of place,” Carson said, once she was out of earshot. “I mean, the food presumably is excellent, hardly any alcohol, except beer. Tucked down this back alley. Do they have a clientele in the know so-to-speak?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t statistically analysed the distribution of patrons.” Rodney poked the jar of bread sticks on the table. “It’s cooked on the premises. It isn’t part of a chain. It’s good food, mainly locally sourced, high quality produce. Not a massive selection of dishes. But she listens if you have a dietary ‘issue’. No peanut has ever been on the premises. And the soufflé…” Rodney rocked back on his chair and manufactured a tiny orgasm.

“You just wanted to come here for the soufflé.” John grinned.

Sitting upright, Rodney rubbed his hands together. “Believe you me, you won’t regret it.”

~*~

“Well, that’s enough breathing, I think,” Carson said as he poured the red wine into their glasses.

~*~

Mrs. Reynolds and her assistant waiter brought out the soufflé and the chilled Bollinger Grande Année 1997.

“Oh, my god, I’m in heaven!” Rodney proclaimed as the young man set the giant soufflé before him. “You should get promoted more often, Major.”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” John drawled.

Carson accepted the Champagne from their hostess and presented it to John. “Would you like to do the honours?”

John took possession with a smile. “Did you get this stuff from duty free?”

“I took advantage of the opportunity to travel between the US and the UK, yes.” Carson scooped up their white wine glasses -- there weren’t any champagne flutes -- and set them beside John.

“Enjoy your chocolate.” Mrs. Reynolds said, corralling her waiter the second he had finished placing the desserts and drawing him away so that they had their privacy.

John peeled back the gold foil and then ever so carefully teased out the cork. It came free with a delicate pop and, with panache, John poured three generous glasses.

“We are going to be so hungover; it’s a good job we’ve got nothing on tomorrow.” Carson gathered up his glass. “Would you like to do the honours, Rodney?”

“What?” Rodney said around a mouthful of soufflé. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Carson shook his head fondly.

A little shaving of chocolate was melting on Rodney’s bottom lip; his tongue dipped out gathering it in. He set his dessert fork down and picked up the glass of sparkly champagne.

“Well, what can I say? Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking.”

John sniggered.

“Lieutenant Colonel -- and I’m pretty sure that most people thought that you wouldn’t have made it past Captain -- I think that we can all safely say that Atlantis has made you. And--” he scowled thunderously, “--if you ever strap your ass on to another *thing* instead of waiting around for me to pull a brilliant plan out of my enormous brain, Pinky, I will kill you.” Rodney stood up. “To Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, Congratulations!”

Carson jumped to his feet and echoed the sentiment wholeheartedly.

A deep red blush flushed Sheppard’s pale, pale skin, turning his cheeks a rosy apple red.

“Thank you,” he managed squeakily, embarrassed out of his customary laconic drawl.

“And now, chocolate and champagne.” Rodney settled back, wriggled happily in his chair, lost in a happy place filled with chocolate, effectively giving John a moment to gain his equanimity.

Sitting, Carson bent his head and finally delved into his soufflé. The runny chocolate centre with a hint of Courvoisier was utter pleasure -- made a touch more perfect by a year of deprivation.

“Wow,” John said suddenly. He shovelled in another bit of chocolate. “Do you think we can get the recipe?”

“Told you,” Rodney crowed, as he topped up their glasses.

“It’s better than good, Rodney. Excellent choice,” Carson said.

Rodney preened happily.

~*~

Rodney slouched back in his chair and cupped his hands over his full tummy. Carson could tell that the man was replete.

“It’s a pity that Grant didn’t want to come.” John mused, carefully running his finger along the lip of his coffee glass, coating it with cream. “He missed an excellent meal.”

“I told you he doesn’t like restaurants,” Rodney said.

“We could take him a doggy bag?” Carson ventured muzzily; a third of a bottle of white, a reasonable proportion of the red and two glasses of bubbly and now an Irish coffee, was making the world a lovely place.

“Can you believe that Landry tried to recruit Grant!” Rodney suddenly grumbled. He pointed, finger wagging emphatically. “Grant can’t be at the SG-thingy. He’s got to be safe in Toronot-no-ro. Tornonto?”

“Toronto,” John supplied as he licked his finger tip.

“Yes, Toronot.” Rodney shook his head. “Grant’s the reason that we do what we do. It’s to keep him safe.”

“So he decided not to accept the general-bloke’s offer?” Carson clarified.

“Yes. And it’s a wise decision, and I, emphatically, did not coach him.” Rodney puffed out his chest. “He doesn’t like the guns and I think he finds uniforms a bit threatening. I can’t believe Landry. Yes, yes, he could make a valuable con-con--”

“Contribution,” John inserted.

“Contribution to the SG-thing. I can’t believe Landry trying to recruit my little cousin.”

“I thought that Grant was older?” John checked.

“Whatever.” Rodney waved his hand. “He’s my little cousin, now.”

“Surely, General Landry checked Grant’s _curriculum vitae_?” Carson asked.

“His what?” John asked.

“Resume,” Carson clarified, “and his medical history? I agree, Rodney, the SGC is not a good place for Grant to be. I would guess that he has adopted a whole suite of behaviours which he needs to maintain for comfort and security and if there’s one thing that the SG uhm – is not, is predictable.”

“Landry had a dossier on his big, long table--” Rodney snorted irreverently, “ --which he kept referring to when he was talking to me. He made an offer to Grant which was a legitimate…eh… thing. What’s going to happen when I’m not here if he was working for the SGC? I wouldn’t be able to look after him. I’m going to have to talk to Jeannie before we go back, make sure that no one tries to recruit…”

Rodney paled, his generous red, alcoholic flush fled.

“Rodney?” Carson sat up straight.

Rodney stood, abandoning coffee and chocolate mints.

John rose to his feet. “What’s the matter, Rodney?”

“Landry had Grant checked. It was a legitimate offer. Grant’s now in the SGC database.”

“And?” John raised his hand, trying to calm Rodney.

“He didn’t take the post. His details are on the SGC inter- and intranet.” Rodney, impossibly, paled even further. “I can’t believe that I didn’t think of this…”

“What?” John demanded as Rodney jerked in the direction of the door.

“The NID. The Trust. Anyone and any other covert operation that’s got a finger in the SGC pie will now be fully aware of Grant’s skills and he’s not working for the SGC so it will be open house.”

“So you think that someone will try to recruit him?” Carson felt a cold stirring in his guts. Working for Stargate Command was a brutal life and, as a civilian, required a certain amount of savvy to circumnavigate the personal and the political demands of any position. Grant would be melting butter on hot toast – snaffled up in a heartbeat. Slowly, Carson stood, picking up his backpack and shifting it onto his shoulder.

“That’s the best case scenario.” Rodney rifled in his wallet and threw down a wad of notes on the table top. “I have to get home. I have to check on Grant.”

“McKay!” Sheppard snapped.

Rodney froze.

“Do you believe that there is a threat to Grant?” Sheppard asked his tone neutral.

“Let’s say that I’ll be happier, when I get home and find my cousin curled up fast asleep with Mr. Jinx.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go check on Grant,” Sheppard said. “Now.”

 _fin_   



End file.
